


Nothing New Under the Sun

by theinkwell33



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam's Getting Married, Aziraphale Bakes, Crowley Gardens, Fluff, Footnotes, Gen, Godparents Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Platonic Relationship, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Arrangement (Good Omens), Weddings, college adam, history repeats itself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: Adam's getting married. The thing is, when his godparents find out what his fiance's name is, it's going to go down like a lead balloon.





	Nothing New Under the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the years after the almost-apocalypse. Could be canon compliant with either the book or the show, depending on which lens you prefer! Hope you enjoy!

The day after Adam turned twenty one, he took his usual early Saturday train down to the coast. He read some magazines on the way there, texted with anyone else in his group of friends who happened to be awake at this ungodly hour1, and generally tried to fight the nerves that were beginning to surface through his exhaustion.

> _1 Eight in the morning, also known as the devil’s hour by many a depressed and distressed student._

In the years since the apocalypse debacle2, Adam had led a primarily human life. He phoned his parents every week to fill them in on his classes, did his own laundry, cleaned3 his apartment, applied for internships, studied hard for his degrees in Classics and Art History, learned Spanish4, Latin, and Japanese for his electives, and took Dog for walks. 

> _2 In his head, he referred to it as the knockoff-alypse._
> 
> _3 Well, sort of._
> 
> _4 Finally._

In his spare time, Adam occasionally reunited with his childhood friends over drinks in a pub, met up with his girlfriend to bake biscuits, attended painting classes with his roommates for fun5, and was comfortably entertained by the new season of Doctor Who. But the thing he most enjoyed doing was visiting his godfathers.

> _5 It’s really only fun to paint if you’re good enough at it, Adam privately felt. He was not good at it._

The routine was simple. Adam would arrive at the train station, where a well-dressed angel in a bow tie would be waiting for him on a nearby bench, reading the newspaper. Adam and Aziraphale would then walk the pebbled road down from the hill to the cottage by the sea, and the salty air would prickle against Adam’s skin. His hair would curl against his temples, and the gray clouds would blot the sun. The angel would tell him about what he’d been up to during the week, and they would occasionally muse on existential questions6 while kicking rocks down the lane to hear them clatter and skid.

> _6 To Adam, a question qualified as “existential” when it left one with a lurching feeling of mortality and an urge for carpe diem. For instance, whether or not butter pecan ice cream surpassed mint chip in the ranking of most delightful, or whether humans retained their memories after they died._

When they arrived at the cottage, Aziraphale would throw open the door and lead Adam into a curiously decorated main room, within view of a homey kitchen and a small back door leading to an annexed greenhouse. The furniture was a bizarre mishmash of fashions: overstuffed armchairs that let out puffs of dust when you sat in them, juxtaposed against a sleek black coffee table that could have been used as a set piece in a space movie. A set of modern glass bookcases held precious old books from Aziraphale’s collection, and a hideous tartan throw was cast across a minimalist futon.

On said futon, Crowley would most likely still be sleeping. He rose closer to nine or ten most days, insisting that mornings were not designed to be appreciated, but rather, avoided entirely. Adam knew Aziraphale never slept; the angel preferred to stay up to watch the stars move across the sky, bake for hours, or read books cover to cover. On a few occasions, Crowley had tried to stay up with Aziraphale, but after so many years of forming sleeping habits, they were apparently very difficult to break.

“I found him once in the greenhouse, headfirst in a geranium pot, completely asleep,” the angel confided in Adam last week. “I didn’t think to check on him until almost morning, but I don’t think he lasted past ten or eleven.” 

Some patterns, Adam supposed, were just too difficult to break after six thousand years. Like Aziraphale’s baking habit. Somewhere between the thirteenth and fifteenth century, Aziraphale had developed an interest in baking, and had perfected nearly every recipe there was. He’d compiled a book-length thesis on the subject, and shared his recipes with people when he was feeling particularly benevolent (which was always). He’d tucked a handwritten copy of his scone recipe into Adam’s palm the first time he’d come to the cottage to visit. It was dated _October 1756._ Adam had promptly framed it and hung it up in his room.

While Aziraphale brewed tea and set out plates for whatever confection he’d spent the night crafting, Adam would sit on the edge of the futon beside Crowley and watch the demon sleep. It was curious how calm his expression became when it wasn’t being contorted into sarcastic sneers or sentimental smiles7. He looked completely different, softer, when the sunglasses weren’t obscuring his face.

> _7 Yes, Adam noticed those, though he wasn’t sure if he was meant to, so he never brought it up._

Back when Adam first started visiting Aziraphale and Crowley, it had been back in London. He’d alternated meeting them for breakfast at Crowley’s modern flat with all the lush plants cowering in corners, or at Aziraphale’s bookshop, which was warmer and dustier, and there was always cocoa.

But after Adam had gone to uni, his godfathers moved out of London. Perhaps the city had finally become too much for them, or perhaps Adam’s love for the countryside was contagious, but they ultimately found a cottage on the South Downs that would do nicely. It was silly to buy two cottages, Crowley had told Adam, because they already spent so much time together at this point that one would almost always be vacant. And, after you’d lived for six thousand years while the rest of humanity was a constant succession of lit matches and flickered out candles, it’s very hard to find people that _understand_. And so, through another Arrangement8 of sorts, here they were.

> _8 Adam asked them once if there was a roommate agreement. There was, and they both signed it. In one clause, Aziraphale agreed not to excessively dote on Crowley’s plants, and Crowley agreed not to threaten them unless it was “necessary”. Adam was never clear on what qualified as “necessary”, but there you are._

Eventually, the tea would be ready and Crowley would be roused by the tantalizing scent of bergamot, courtesy of Adam waving a steaming cup of Earl Grey under his nose.

The three of them would sit at the small wrought iron table in the greenhouse, watching dewdrops slide down the angled glass panes as they ate9. It was a perfect way to spend the freshest moments of a quintessential English Saturday. Adam would tell them about school, and the Them, and his roommates’ antics. Crowley would then give him a tour of the greenhouse, point out particularly thriving plants, and ask Adam to admonish10 a few of the struggling ones. 

> _9 If Crowley ate, Adam had never seen him do it. He suspected it had something to do with the demon’s snakelike nature; perhaps he had venomous fangs, or didn’t want anyone to see him tightly hug his food like a boa constrictor before cramming it into his unhinged jaw. Adam’s imagination provided a myriad of theories, but failed to consider the most probable: that, just like Aziraphale did not sleep, perhaps Crowley just…did not need to eat._
> 
> _10 It was a brilliant loophole in the roommate agreement, and Adam thought it was very funny._

Today, Adam’s visit to the cottage was going to be slightly different. In the past, he’d mentioned every aspect of his young life to them, with the exception of one. And that one last thing had become extremely important of late, and it was probably a good idea to tell them about it before Adam's parents11 spread the word.

> _11 Adam’s father had met Crowley three times and Aziraphale twice. None of the occasions had gone well, seeing as they either took place at Adam’s birth, during the knockoff-alypse, or at an exceedingly awkward dinner last year where Adam had introduced them all to each other “officially.” Nobody talks about that night, because it involved an unexpected upgrade in the wine selection, several rats, and an extraordinarily confused Elvis impersonator. Adam suspected Crowley and Aziraphale’s nerves had acted up in the form of unnecessary and (mostly) benign miracles. For two people who had lived on earth for so long, they were awful at blending in like humans when it was really important._

The train eventually slowed to a stop, and Adam stepped onto the platform where he was greeted by three things. A light misty rain, a man reading a newspaper with sunglasses on, and a beautiful black Bentley in the car park. This was new.

“Crowley, what are you doing here?” Adam asked when he was within earshot. Crowley folded the paper, which was a little soggy, and smiled up at him.

“Something’s different today, and I want to know what.”

“How did you know?”

“I could feel it.”

“Really?”

There was an intense moment before Crowley stood fluidly and bopped Adam’s shoulder with his newspaper. “Nah, I'm kidding.. Aziraphale got the scones into the oven later than usual, so they’re not done. He doesn’t trust me within ten feet of his kitchen space – for good reason – and he refuses to leave them unattended. So I decided I’d come meet you.” With a tilt of his head, he motioned for Adam to follow him to the Bentley.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” Adam grinned.

“Well, ’s hard to sleep when he’s blustering about batter consistency and stuff.”

Adam got into the passenger’s seat and clicked his seatbelt while Crowley started the engine. “So, why did you drive? We could walk from here.”

“Because I like this car. A lot.”

“Fair enough.”

They shot out of the lot with a jolt and Adam was pressed violently into his seat by the sudden change in speed. “I think I left my brain back there,” he joked when he felt less nauseated. “It fell out about a mile back.”

“’S happened to people before,” Crowley muttered darkly. “Hang on,” he said as they swung through a lazily blinking traffic light with such speed the tires squealed happily against the road. 

“To what?” Adam asked from where he’d been thrown against the window. He fumbled for a handle but found none.

“Nah, I meant hang on, go back to what you first said when I picked you up. I said something’s different and you said _how did I know_.”

“Ah. That.” A small part of Adam had been hoping maybe he could just…not tell them yet. It was going to go down like a lead balloon, he just knew it. But he’d let it slip something was up, and now he either had to come up with something on the spot or just get it over with.

“Well, I was going to tell you two over breakfast,” he began.

“Ah come on, I need to know. Is it Dog? Is Dog okay? Are _you_ okay? You’re not dying are you?” Crowley surveyed him over the tops of his sunglasses, looking concerned.

“We’re all fine. Look, it’s really- _Watch out for that old lady!_ ”

“Eh, she’s fine,” Crowley murmured but swerved perfunctorily, “Oh, go on, just tell me.”

Another sharp turn sent Adam flying against the window again, and when he peeled his cheek off the glass, he steeled himself. “All right, here’s the thing.”

And when he told Crowley, the Bentley slammed to a screeching halt in the middle of the road. The demon ripped off his sunglasses in disbelief. 

“You _what?_ ” 

* * *

Aziraphale selected a serving plate with care. He had many to choose from, all featuring some kind of divine motif, whether it was nuzzling doves, or feathers extending from giant wings, or a set of gold concentric halos. He knew Crowley hated the plates, but he also knew Crowley hated them the way people _say_ they hate Twilight, but if it’s on TV they’ll come sit with you and laugh at all the good bits and potentially make you some popcorn.

He finally decided on the dove plate and began to arrange the scones, which were still warm to the touch. He was annoyed at the shift in schedule, but if it meant a perfect bake, that was all right. He was just putting the last one on the stack when the cottage door opened and Crowley stomped inside, followed by a shockingly meek-looking Adam.

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale began, but Crowley wagged a finger at the angel.

“No, no, no, don’t be nice to him; you haven’t heard what he’s done.” Crowley sank dramatically onto the sofa in a distraught pose.

“Now, really,” Aziraphale picked up the plate of scones, confused, “you can’t say something like that and not explain.”

“Tell him, Adam,” Crowley urged, putting a hand over his face. The sunglasses were back in place now.

Adam stared between the two of them as if he was immediately regretting making this visit and wished to dissolve into a rain puddle. 

When the silence stretched on for too long, Crowley’s impatience got the best of him. “Adam’s getting married.”

“That’s wonderful!” Aziraphale gasped. “We should celebrate!”

“No, that's not the point.”

“And…what is the point, dear?”

“The…the point is her name.”

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale said slowly.

“Crowley’s upset,” explained Adam, “because of her name. It’s Evelyn.”

The demon made a wilting noise in the back of his throat and gestured entreatingly to Aziraphale. “You see?”

“I’m pleasantly surprised, of course, but I don’t see what the fuss is about. Adam’s found a partner, this is great news. Evelyn, how charming.”

Adam cleared his throat awkwardly. “Erm. She goes by Eve.”

And that’s when Aziraphale dropped the plate.

* * *

Crowley was probably one of the few who best understood irony. One might think this meant he enjoyed irony, and one would be vastly, egregiously wrong. Crowley hated it with all his might, which was really saying something.

So the fact that Adam was marrying someone called Eve, after everything Crowley had seen in his six thousand years…it was like getting punched in the face. Like someone took the massive dictionary off Aziraphale’s bookshelf and smacked him with it, shouting “ _a contradictory outcome of events as if in mockery of the promise and fitness of things”_ over and over.

Crowley certainly felt like he was being mocked.

Humanity had once again pulled one over on him. Just when you thought humans were going to be different from here on out, Genesis 2.0, they do something like this. They've got to go and be predictable.

When he eventually decided to tell Downstairs what was happening with Adam12, they were going to lose their minds. Go completely insane. And he shuddered to think how Aziraphale’s Upstairs colleagues would react. Gabriel would probably rage flip a desk. There’s no way the management on either side had planned this. It was too neat. Too…ineffable. Which is to say, Crowley knew exactly Who was responsible.

> _12 Sometimes they asked about him, the way a distant aunt might ask about “young Warlock” and the parents would correct her, “It’s Adam, Louisa.” Well-meaning, but not involved._

Aziraphale was handling it better than him, Crowley would admit. After Adam left, weighed down with extra scones for Eve (at Aziraphale’s insistence), the angel quietly repaired the damaged dove plate. He sat down in one of the squashy armchairs opposite Crowley’s futon, where the demon had stayed since his dramatic entrance hours ago, and sighed. 

“This is hilarious, Crowley,” he’d said with a completely serious expression. “I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, hilarious,” Crowley replied unenthusiastically. “We get to watch everything happen again. From the top. It’s going to be exhausting.”

“Yes, well, we don’t know for certain everything will be the same.” Aziraphale straightened his bow tie and rubbed some stray flour off of his forehead. “For one thing, we won’t be adversaries this time around.”

“Were we _ever_ really adversaries?”

“Well…no.”

“But it’s not a coincidence. Adam and Eve…I mean, _really_. I can’t handle this.”

“It’ll be all right,” Aziraphale assured him. “It’s all going to be just fine. This is a thing people do, you know this. _We’ve_ done this. They get themselves into odd situations, they acknowledge the funny circumstances of their meet-cute, and they continue living.”

“This isn’t cute, it’s _not_.”

“You say that now,” Aziraphale beamed. “But just wait until the wedding. It’ll be adorable.”

* * *

Crowley was loath to admit it, but yeah, it was adorable.

The wedding took place on a balmy June afternoon, and was extremely well attended. Crowley avoided the actual ceremony, which took place in a chapel, because while he could technically stand to be in one, it still necessitated that he hop from foot to foot, which he imagined would be slightly distracting to the other guests. He rejoined Aziraphale at the evening reception on the grounds of a beautiful castle ruin that overlooked the ocean. They sat at a far table under the massive white tent, inconspicuously tucked away from Adam’s well-meaning but prying extended family who had already asked impertinent questions like “Which one of you fellows is looking for a lovely lady friend to dance with?”

With this peril avoided, the two were free to watch the festivities, drinking14 it all in.

> _14 Metaphorically and physically. They had some discreetly superior champagne that was too shocked at its miraculous upgrade to be anything more than acquiescent._

“Ugh, fine, you were right,” Crowley admitted.

“About what?”

“This is pretty cute.”

Aziraphale gave him a dazzling smile. “I told you so.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re not always right about everything.”

“I’m an angel, it’s impossible for me to be wrong,” he replied archly. 

They both laughed, and Aziraphale took a delighted bite of wedding cake. They watched the dancing for a while longer, until Crowley leaned back in his chair and swooped his head lazily toward Aziraphale. Something had occurred to him, and he wasn’t sure how to phrase it.

After a long moment, he decided on “Where’s your sword?”

A blush crept onto Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Ah,” he started, eyes flitting to Crowley.

It was amusing to see the angel look so guilty, and it wasn’t all that rare. Crowley supposed that was what being an angel was like; you probably had lots of things to feel guilty for, whether or not you should. “Don’t tell me,” he drawled, “you-”

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale confirmed.

Behind Crowley’s sunglasses, his eyes blazed triumphantly. “After they just gave it back to you? Like, a _week_ ago?”

“Maybe that’s _why_ they gave it back to me."

Crowley brought his hands to his temples. “I can’t believe you did this again.”

“I know,” Aziraphale shook his head helplessly. “Imagine the paperwork. I do hope they won’t be too upset. I just couldn’t resist.”

“Ngh,” Crowley moaned. “Of course you couldn’t. _Had_ to be part of the joke. Look at what you’ve set in motion. The wheel turns.”

He watched as Aziraphale took in the scene: the wedding reception in the garden, the sandy beach in the distance, the old wall from the castle ruins at their backs. The apples delicately tied by strings so they hung from the tasteful mini-tree centerpiece at their table. Adam at the center of the dance floor, slowly twirling Eve as they danced. The sword tucked neatly into the huge box of wedding gifts Adam’s parents were carrying to the car. A gorgeous summery breeze swept in with the scent of honeysuckle. Practically Eden.

A storm off to sea let out a roll of thunder. It was a long way off, but nobody could rule out the possibility of rain. It was a good thing they were under a tent.

“I am well aware of the irony,” Aziraphale sighed, half amused. “It seems even angels aren’t immune to repeating history. It appears life is-”

“-ineffable,” they both said heavily. 

“I’m getting rather sick of that word,” the angel confessed.

Crowley snorted, and they lapsed into a silence for a while. It was only after a Queen song began to play on the dance floor that he mused, “What do you reckon? D’we have another six thousand years to go?”

There was a sentimental gleam in Aziraphale’s eyes. “I certainly wouldn’t mind it.”

“Hmm. ’S that phrase? ‘What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.’ Something like that?”

“Ecclesiastes, I believe,” he nodded. “You, of all people, quoting the Bible?”

“I thought it was Shakespeare.”

A smile fluttered on Aziraphale’s lips. “He quoted the Bible too.”

“Yeah, well, nobody’s perfect.” Crowley lifted his flute of champagne, which had refilled itself with Moet Chandon. “Well, cheers, then,” he said. “We’ve got a lot to look forward to, it seems.”

“Cheers.” Aziraphale clinked his (also refilled) glass against Crowley’s. “To the world.”

“To the world.”


End file.
